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Often, when I watch a documentary, I wonder how people who claim to be so affected, so depressed, sometimes so mean, can appear so open, so sincere, and have so much perspective when telling their story. The hysterical one is perfectly calm. The compulsive liar tells the whole truth. Those presented as suffering from intellectual or emotional delays demonstrate an extraordinary clarity and intelligence in their introspection.

It's not staging or manipulation. It's the camera effect.

One day, in the midst of the routine, a director called them and showed interest in their lives. He asked them questions, wanted to know more about them. There seemed to be no cost to this interest, no trap, nothing to give in return. Trust was born. Then, on the day of the interview, a whole team sprang into action: lights were set up, equipment moved, furniture rearranged, and at the right moment, this machinery fell silent to capture their words. The director, the cinematographer, the sound engineer, the assistant—everyone was attentive.

We all seek to prove that we exist.

Not being seen is probably the mother of all fears. On a small scale—the annoyance of being jostled by a stranger in the street—or on a more essential level—the feeling of being ignored by parents, by friends, by the world in general.

During an interview, this fear fades away. The lights, the camera, the attention of the entire team are focused on oneself. There is time. One feels heard. The barriers one had set up to protect oneself, the reflexes one had created to prove that one is there, to attract attention—all of that can be put on hold.

We reveal the remarkable person we would be at every moment if the world paid attention.

Yeah, sorry: I can't help myself. But every time, I'm amazed.

It's incredible that the tide wrote a message in French so clearly when it receded. Nature is amazing!

Received this week at a particularly opportune time (if only I believed in signs):

Written in six months, left to rest for almost five years, and recently found the right ending before registering it at the Library of Congress. "The Stagemaster" is a screenplay for a dramatic comedy set in Great Britain, written in English and I am now able to start sharing it. English-speaking contacts are welcome.

In business, of course, it's a quality. We want it everywhere.

In essence, reactivity is the ability to analyze and react to a situation that is outside the scope of what was originally planned. When you've devised a plan that obviously isn't working anymore ("is it normal for the basement to flood like this?"), you have to be able to put aside outdated solutions ("so we don't turn the power back on?") to initiate actions that are more in line with the reality of the problem ("maybe we should tell the kids to come back upstairs?").

So if you're asked this question in a job interview: yes, you're reactive. Thoroughly.

In Eastern philosophy, it's a more mixed quality. Becoming less reactive is even a measure of progress: a Buddhist who is not proud of his behavior would say "Sorry, I was being reactive" or "I was acting from a place of reactivity."

In that context, reactivity is acting immediately on the basis of one's thoughts and emotions. Without buffering, without temporizing, without giving them a chance to evolve.

For Buddhists, thoughts and emotions are transient. Like everything else in this world, psychic contents appear, take their course, and then disappear. The wisdom lies in observing this dance without getting trapped by each passing mood.

Often, Buddhists tell us, we give too much credit to our thoughts. We imagine that every idea is the mental representation of an underlying reality; that every emotion that points inside is the consequence of something that happens outside; that there is a 1:1 ratio between the physical world and our image of it. In this view, it is crucial to act without delay since thoughts are reality - or are, at least, extremely faithful ambassadors of it.

Except that a modicum of introspection quickly puts this idea to shame.

When not artificially entertained, thoughts... pass. Emotions pass. Everything passes. And usually very independently of the reality to which they were thought to be attached.

In fact, the same reality can present itself very differently throughout the day: disturbing in the morning, indifferent at noon, more motivating in the evening. Three perceptions for the same object. But to witness this change (what Buddhists refer to as impermanence or anitya), one must not have acted hastily in the morning. By jumping into action right away (being reactive), we don't give ourselves the chance to see that first emotion disappear in favor of the next one, and then the next one, and so on, revealing the essentially ephemeral nature of our psychic contents.

This is especially important because, as Acharya Prashant writes in Advait in Everyday Life (don't let the cover fool you, this book is a treasure trove): the seed and the fruit of action are one.

In other words: action initiated in anger will only bring more anger. The enterprise built on fear will only lead to more fear. The emotion at the source of the action will be the emotion at the end of the action, no matter how successful the project is.

Think about it: do you know many millionaires who quit business after their first big score? Politicians who don't want more power once they reach the first office? Mafiosi who give up violence once the first rivals are eliminated? Far from neutralizing it, action validates and encourages the original emotion.

Conclusion: action is rarely the right solution for dealing with unwanted emotions.

Transforming the external world will not end this sadness. Accepting or rejecting this deal will not neutralize that anguish. Using verbal or physical violence will not stop this anger. On the contrary: this decision may ultimately exacerbate the negative emotions and problematic thoughts it was supposed to stop.

So what to do?

This is both the paradox and the solution: there is nothing to do. If you don't artificially nurture them with a desire for action, the thoughts arise and disappear on their own, without anything required of you. For, as the other said:

"Whatever has the nature to appear, will also disappear." 
-- Buddha

So: when I'm worried, sad or anxious, first I deal with the emotion - by doing nothing - and then, only then, I act. But often, at this point, action is no longer necessary. Which leaves me time to write all these bullshit articles.

I found a treasure trove of containment drawings in a misplaced folder. You are not out of the woods.

When I find the time, I'll write a recap article about my approach to productivity and how far I've come in this area.

Contrary to what I used to think, productivity is not the art of doing more ("Here, I have a free hour between sports and my cooking class, I'm going to learn the trumpet!"). Productivity is the search for an alignment between who we are - what we believe in, what we want in life, what is important to us - and the way we spend our time every day. Too often, the hours, days and years are consumed by routine, urgency and fatigue. We end up on autopilot in service of a job, the grind, or personal goals that are no longer current.

Finding an overall direction of our own and then ensuring that this direction infuses every minute of every day is what productivity is all about.

But since I don't have time - irony! - I'm going to share this video from Pursuit of Wonder, a channel I used to follow back when I was on youtube a lot. If you skip the beginning sponsors, you'll get a glimpse of a philosophy that I share: the importance of emptiness, of idleness, of boredom.

It's a channel I recommend. I like the topics they choose - philosophical essays rooted in stoicism, Zen and bordering on science fiction - I like the guy's hypnotic voice, I like the simple but clear illustrations.

Other videos that I liked: in a somewhat science fiction genre, there was The Machine. As a moral tale of sorts, there was The Nova Effect. And a bit more like a story: Every person is one choice away from everything changing. Enjoy.

I've decided not to renew my subscription to the New York Times and New Yorker to see how it feels. Not to get stuck in my reading habits and discover new avenues.

So recently, I've found myself a bit lost at certain key moments when I usually pull out my phone. (Lunch break: check. Extended bathroom break: check. Before going to bed: check.) A bit like when I stopped Facebook & Co: what did I do before? What was I reading before my cell phone consumed my life?

I thought about subscribing to free newsletters. Found nothing conclusive.

And then by chance, I stumbled upon a trove.

I stumbled upon (via this Lex Fridman podcast) this incredible article Meditations on Moloch.

Moloch is a biblical monster that Allen Ginsberg used in a famous poem (in English here, in French there, it starts in the second part) to describe what is wrong with the world. Many think he's describing capitalism, but that's just it: in Meditations on Moloch, the author unpacks the poem and shows that there's something much darker hidden behind it.

Moloch is the race to the bottom that everyone is forced to participate in even when they know it's bad for everyone. It is the need to abandon deeply human values to gain competitive advantages that will leave us behind if we don't do what others are doing. It is that force that pushes toward survival ("the state of subsistence," he says) rather than life and that, once this transitional period of abundance is over, will enslave us all.

And in this extremely well-written, very long article, packed with examples and references, he unveils an absolutely Lovecraftian vision of the world in which humans are at the mercy of ancestral monsters that battle each other. And one of them, the one that is probably winning: Moloch.

It made me think a lot about human nature, about our times, and about what lies ahead for us, especially in terms of energy contraction in the age of Artificial Intelligence - one of the monsters that could be working for us or against us.

The article grabbed me so much that I went to look around a bit. The author calls himself Scott Alexander, he's a psychiatrist by trade and...he's written so much! Like hundreds of posts. I read three or four of them at random and was overwhelmed by the detail, the intelligence, the originality.

For example, if you're in the mood and really want to be aware of your mere mortal condition, you can read Who by very slow decay which talks about how doctors deal with the end of life - which is a bit like How doctors die that I wrote about a long time ago and that he mentions. (Coincidentally, what made me click on the article: "Who by very slow decay" is a line from the Leonard Cohen song "Who by Fire" that I discovered last week.)

Even better: when you go to his blog, he's got a long list of links to other authors who keep equally packed blogs: economics, science, rationality, etc... Only geeky subjects that interest me. And his pet peeve, the thread that ties his articles together, is effective altruism which he explains extremely well.

Conclusion: you have to clear your mind to discover something new.

Another dead-end hobby of mine: generative art. I program in c with the Cairo library to make little drawings. I do this some Sunday afternoons instead of tinkering.

Here: testing a new noise function to control the brush. I didn't intend to share it but the result surprised me and since I haven't published anything for a week...

In the long run, I'd like to use this technique in animation to illustrate some video essays.

Because yes, that's the advantage: once a first drawing is done, it's easy to fiddle with some parameters to create very evocative psychedelic animations.

Did you notice how the music from Kubrick's 2001 A Space Odyssey makes everything seem strange? No? Well, I have:

(Or maybe it's just Normandy that's weird?)

I liked the play so much that I did a quick recording of it. Excerpt:

Hopefully it helps them find some new venues.